


Snapshots, or, Zeryn is a Cranky Pregnant Lady

by thecryoftheseagulls



Series: Zeryn Brosca [14]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Names, F/M, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy, Some blood/battlefield gore, Vaginal Fingering, and she and Alistair are cute parents-to-be, in general Zeryn is a stubborn goose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2180832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecryoftheseagulls/pseuds/thecryoftheseagulls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Compilation of a lot of little scenes over the course of Zeryn Brosca's pregnancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Zeryn glowers at her hands at the dinner table and spears her broccoli with rather more force than necessary. Her plate clatters. She turns to Alistair.

“But what are we going to name it?!”

Across from her, Alistair rouses himself and lifts his chin from his hand to glance at his wife. “Hmm?”

Zeryn has already gone back to skewering vegetables. “How in the bloody void does one go about naming another person, anyways? Who thought parents should have that responsibility? Here, child, I’ve only just met you, but I’ve already decided on what to call you for the rest of your life. Oh, you don’t like it? Too bad. You’re stuck with it. Ha. Wallow in my omnipotent position in your life, for I am the parent, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” She snorts loudly and half-throws her silverware onto the table with a look of disgust.

“Ohh, you mean the _baby_. Right.” Alistair’s befuddled expression clears. Zeryn folds her arms and glares daggers into the table. “Erm, you know, if they absolutely hated the name, they could always decide to go by something else later,” he says placatingly.

“Yes, after a couple of decades of formative torture.”

“Why?” He chuckles. “Is that what happened to you? Get stuck with a terrible nickname growing up, did you my dear?”

Zeryn sticks out her chin stubbornly. “No. At least, not more than the usual. But the point is, it’s entirely possible and knowing me – us – even probable. I don’t know whose idea it was to give me this kind of authority, but now that we’ve all had an extremely forced laugh, they can take it back.”

“Zery-” Alistair starts to say, but Zeryn picks her fork back up and jabs it in his direction.

“And don’t you ‘Zeryn dear you saved Ferelden’ me, because we both know that was sheer luck and no small amount of ‘too stubborn to just die’.”

He snorts. “Yes, I know _you_ think so, but no matter how many times you tell me, I’m not convinced.” Zeryn scowls at him, goes back to poking at her food. He reaches over and folds his big hands over hers, stilling them. “How hard can it be, picking a name? Besides, it’s not as though we have to decide right away, hm?” He brushes her cheek. “Let’s see now. For a boy…” Alistair tilts his head, eyebrows knitting together.

Zeryn is silent, her red hair (grown long down her back in the years since the war) falling over her face.

“Perhaps…” Alistair starts.

“Duncan.” Zeryn says quietly. He quirks a small smile at her.

“Yes, that.” Alistair tucks the hair behind her ear. “You wouldn’t mind?”

She shakes her head slowly. “No…” Moving a hand out from under Alistair’s she touches her belly, tentatively. “Duncan Brosca,” she says, trying out the feel of the full name on her tongue. She looks back up to Alistair. “I like it.”

He smiles, bends his head to kiss her slowly. “Me too,” he says against her lips. She leans back to look him in the eyes.

“But what if it’s a girl?”

“Er…” Alistair licks his lips. “We’ll work on that one later, how ‘bout?” He kisses the corner of her mouth, runs his hand up her arm, fiddles with the ties on her bodice.

“Mm,” Zeryn agrees, angling her chin so that his lips brush hers more fully. “If you insist, love…”

***

“If we’re going with a theme of naming it after people we owe our lives to, we could always call her Morrigan,” Zeryn says later, both of them naked in bed. She straddles his lap.

Alistair groans. “You’re joking. _Please_ tell me you’re joking.”

Zeryn rolls her hips lightly, smirking devilishly. “Probably,” she agrees.

He growls, snags an arm around her waist (which is to say, across her entire back and then some) and nudging Zeryn open with his thumb, drags two fingers roughly over her clit. 

“Can we _not_ be talking about the witch right now?” he says, rubbing his fingers in agonizingly slow circles and pressing his lips just under her ear.

“I – ah – well.” Zeryn sinks the sword-calloused pads of her fingers into the hard muscle of his shoulder. “She did…save my life, you know.”

Alistair growls again, pinching her clit between his thumb and forefinger. She gasps, grinds down against his hand. “And I had nothing whatsoever to do with that, did I?”

Zeryn slides her hands up his shoulder and neck to fist it in his hair and she bends to kiss him, wet and open-mouthed and sloppy, swallowing the half-grumble still in his throat. “Touché,” she murmurs.

He shifts her in his lap, slides his fingers down between her labia and presses them inside her. She arches in his arms, and he noses her under the chin, kisses his way down her neck to her collarbone where he licks and sucks at her skin gently, his fingers still curling inside her.

“We are _not_ naming our daughter after Morrigan, and there’s an end to that.”

Zeryn moans, catches her lower lip between her teeth and still manages to give him an impish look. “Your desire is my command, darling.” She snickers.

***

“What about Wynne?” Alistair asks from across the room the next morning as he shrugs on a plain white tunic.

Zeryn’s fingers still at the nape of her neck where she is braiding her hair. She glances at him in the vanity mirror.

“Only one Wynne,” she says quietly after a pause that stretches just a bit too long. “Wouldn’t…wouldn’t seem right, somehow.”

He sighs, comes over to kiss the side of her neck and takes the strands of hair she’s just toying with now from her fingers. His rough hands graze her neck as he takes over the braiding where she left off. “No, you’re right.” He hehs. “Got any relatives you want to memorialize forever in the next generation, then?”

She snorts. “We are not naming it after my mother, if that’s what you’re asking.” She reaches back to drag her fingers over his hand teasingly, says, “There’s always your sister though.”

He lets go of her hair entirely, nearly ruining the braid. “Andraste’s knickers! Absolutely not!”

Zeryn giggles. “I’m just teasing, love.” He frowns at her in the mirror. “My point being, neither of us have any family worth laying claim to.” She hands him a few pins, which he sticks in his mouth as he winds the braid into an updo off her neck.

“Well, _your_ sister’s not that bad,” he says around the mouthful. She wrinkles her nose.

"No, but it would be…weird…naming a kid after Rica.”

Alistair bobs his head and goes about pinning her hair in place, humming quietly. Zeryn relaxes in her chair, closing her eyes. She startles slightly when he rests both his hands on her shoulders and declares,

“There! Done. You look splendid as always, my dear.”

Zeryn smiles at him, putting a hand over his. “Thank you, love.”

***

Zeryn tightens her fingers around Starfang’s hilt at her belt, something she does without thinking when she’s alarmed or irritated, and has to make a conscious effort to pry them loose. She drops her hand to her side, flexing her fingers, and shoots a wry glance at Alistair. He’s still watching the retreating backside of the third – third! – acquaintance to come up to them today with face-splitting smiles and over-exuberant congratulations. She sighs.

“Too much to ask that the whole city wouldn’t know by now?”

Alistair chuckles, offering her his arm. “Well, it is Jader, my dear. People talk.”

“ _Physicians_ talk,” she mutters. “Aren’t they – not supposed to do that? Or something?”

He shrugs. “It is big news. I can’t say I’m particularly surprised to find it spreading so quickly.”

Zeryn pulls her hand off her sword. Again.

“Heads will roll for this, I hope you know.”

“Of course. One could hardly expect otherwise,” Alistair says serenely. She quirks a brow at him and he grins, winks.

Zeryn rolls a royal between her fingers and holds the coin out to Alistair with a smirk. “Well, at least Ashworth surrendered a royal for his impertinence. Surely that counts for something.”

Alistair takes the coin, glancing once more in the direction of their departed acquaintance.

“Did he, now? How thoughtful of him.”

“ _I_ thought so.”

“You’re incorrigible, my dear,” he says, pocketing the coin.

Zeryn looks utterly unperturbed. “You love it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair comes home with a bouquet of flowers, mostly white lilies, one day. Zeryn spreads them out on the table, starts arranging them into a vase, and Alistair comes to stand behind her. He coils his arms around her, hands resting lightly on her belly, and presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says.

“A dangerous occupation for you.”

“What if we – hey!”

She chuckles, pats his arms and he bends over to rest his chin on her head.

“Rude!” he mutters. “I’ll have you know I am quite capable of independent thought, wife of mine. It’s a specialty. Like bad jokes and killing darkspawn.”

She snickers and tugs lightly at his arm hairs. “Oh, forgive me, _husband_. I stand corrected. Pray continue.”

“Thank you; I shall. Now.” He picks up one of the lilies and spins it in his fingers. “What about ‘Lily’ as a name?”

She plucks the flower from him with a frown and puts it in the vase.

“You want to name a daughter of ours after a flower?”

“Yeeesss?”

Zeryn rotates in his arms so that she’s facing him and arches a brow.

“A daughter. Of ours.”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Love, we are the most un-flowery people I know. You’re a washed-out Templar; I’m an ex-carta thug. We both ran away from the Wardens as soon as decently possible, and now we’re essentially wandering swords for hire, and you think we could pull off having a daughter named _Lily_?”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way….”

“I say we put that one, along with Rose or Daisy or any other flowery variations, in the ‘never in Andraste’s name ever ever happening’ category.”

He looks sullen. “It was a thought.”

Zeryn smiles at the expression, runs her thumb over his pouting lips. “While we’re on the subject, I think we should get out of Orlais. I’m not keen on raising it here.”

“Can we not refer to the baby as an _it_?” Alistair frowns in distaste.

“What? What else do I call it? It’s not as though we know what it is yet.”

Alistair spreads one of his big hands over her belly. “I’ll bet it’s a girl, with all the trouble we’re having coming up with a name. Aren’t you, little one? You’re probably just as stubborn as your mother, and you’ve determined to come out a girl just to spite her for not wanting one all these years.”

Zeryn puts her hands on her hips.

“You are a wicked, spiteful man.”

“Yes, yes, I’m a bad bad man,” Alistair coos at her belly. He looks up to Zeryn with an evil grin. “And I’m going to call her a she.” Zeryn scowls, and he steps away, plucking an apple from the bowl of fruit on the side bar and leaning his shoulder against the wall. “Fine, so you don’t want to raise her in Orlais. Shall we go back to Ferelden, then?”

“I was thinking that. We could always get a place in Denerim, but…” she shrugs, looking less than thrilled with the idea.

“Well, there’s the mountains, if you wanted to be close to Orzammar.” At her look of distaste, he says, “Or Redcliffe. Or not. What about Lothering? I hear it’s nice there this time of year.”

“The last time I was in Lothering I threatened the Revered Mother with an early death so that I could let a murderous Qunari walk free. I don’t think they’re particularly fond of me there.”

“Point taken,” Alistair says, lips thinning. “Well, there was that one village – Elmridge, was it? – where we stayed for a few days on the Lockart job. Seemed like a pleasant place. Not too far from your sister, and the Imperial Highway’s nearby. Plenty of caravans and such. I don’t think it would be difficult to find work.”

Zeryn turns to finish fussing over the vase of flowers. “That sounds…pleasant, actually. We could try it for a while, at least.”

“Right. It’s settled. When do we leave? Probably the sooner the better, yes? Unless you want to wait until after she’s born?” When Zeryn shakes her head, he nods briskly, pads over to kiss her on the forehead. “All right then. I’ll make all the arrangements, dear, you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

Zeryn sighs, catches his hand to pull him back for a proper kiss. “What would I do without you?”

***

Alistair is on the floor, packing what possessions they don’t want to leave behind into straw-filled crates, when he asks, “Have you written to Rica yet, my dear?”

Zeryn doesn’t look up from where she has both their sets of armor spread across the table for polishing. “Mm, yes. Her answer’s over there, somewhere.” She waves a hand at a stack of letters across the room.

“And?”

Zeryn squints at the vambrace in her hands as she says, “Oh, she says the usual. Congratulations, how exciting, how wonderful, so on. She expects we’ll visit before the baby’s born. Bhelen agrees. And of course the children miss us. Not too different from most her letters, aside from the tone of euphoria.”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t stop in for a visit on our way south,” Alistair says. He’s grinning at the exasperation in her voice, she can just tell.

“Yes, yes. You know she’s going to try to get us to stay in Orzammar though.”

He chuckles. “Nothing new there.”

“Except she’s going to try harder now that there’s a baby to think of.”

“Wellll, I mean, if you _want_ to move back to Orzammar…” Alistair starts.

Zeryn throws a gauntlet at his face.

He catches it easily with a burst of warm laughter, sets it on the floor by his knee. “I thought not.”

They work silently for a while, Zeryn scouring her old dragonbone plate and Alistair’s golden plate, the one that was once Cailan’s.

_(“If I’m not going to be King, do you suppose I should give the King’s armor back?” Alistair had asked after she’d slain the archdemon. The idea had taken Zeryn by surprise._

_"Fuck no,” she’d said fiercely. “What’s Anora going to do with it, wear it?” Alistair had shrugged and Zeryn had practically growled. “You’re the last of the Theirin bloodline, Alistair. If it belongs to anyone, it belongs to you. And if it weren’t for us it would still be spread over the battlefield at Ostagar with your brother’s strung-up corpse to guard it. We were the ones who got it back, the ones who put him to rest. Aeducan’s beard, why would we give it back? To whom?”_

_He had nodded, looking vaguely guilty. “I suppose you’re right…”_

_“Besides…” Zeryn had blushed, looked away, and Alistair had arched a brow at her._

_“What is that look about? You’re blushing. Why are you blushing?”_

_"I don’t want you getting rid of it, because…because it looks fucking good on you, okay?” Her voice had lowered. “Ancestors. I could climb you like a tree in that armor.”_

_As per her usual luck, Alistair had heard that muttered comment. Needless to say, it had been an…eventful evening, after that.)_

“I heard of a job today,” Alistair says in the present.

“Mm-hm?” Zeryn bites her lip, hoping she sounds nonchalant. She ducks her head to hide her blush.

“Apparently the Beaurains have a shipment of valuables – cloth or jewels or something, I didn’t ask – coming in to the docks tomorrow and could use some guards to make sure it gets to their other manor, the one that’s a day’s journey from town.”

“Are they anticipating bandits or something?”

“It’s the Beaurains. They’re always anticipating bandits.”

“True.” Zeryn hehs and glances over to him. “Well, we could use the coin before we go. When do they want us there?”

He stops, holding the pot he’s about to pack loosely in his hand. “I, er. Thought I’d take this one on my own, actually.”

Zeryn’s scowl is immediate and intense. “Since when do we do jobs without each other?”

“Obviously, since we found out you were indisposed. I’ll not have you pulling guard duty in your condition, Zeryn.”

“My cond– you did not just say that,” she growls. “Bronto piss, Alistair, I’m having a _baby_ , not turning into an invalid. I’m not some blushing helpless maiden, all right.”

“Fine, that may have been the wrong choice of words. ButI would still feel better if I knew you were out of harm’s way.”

“Nuh-uh. Not happening. I don’t trust any of those pretty little guards the Beurains’ employ to watch your back. If we’re taking the job, we’re taking it together.”

“All right, all right,” Alistair yields. “I don’t expect there’ll be trouble anyways. But let’s make this the last one until the baby comes. Please? I want you to be safe. Both of you.”

She wrinkles her nose and sniffs, going back to the armor. “Fine. Last job, I promise. Then you can… lock me in the house and away from any possible danger, or something, if you want. Ancestors have mercy.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, love.”

“Right,” Zeryn mutters under her breath, glaring. 

***

“I thought you said there wasn’t going to be any trouble!” Zeryn yells, crouching behind the wagon filled with the goods (mostly silks, carpets, that kind of thing) they’re guarding. An arrow whizzes overhead. At her side, Cailan growls loudly.

“There wasn’t supposed to be! It was just supposed to be a mundane escort job!” Alistair yells back from the opposite end of the cart. 

“Caridin, what I would give for someone actually _skilled_ with a bow,” she mutters, slinging her crossbow from her back and peeking over the top of the cart to fire off a bolt at the bandits taking shelter behind the rocks just up the hill from them. There’s a yell of pain and one of the bandits keels over, bolt in the knee. She loads up and fires again quickly, before he can crawl back behind the rock and slither away. “Got one!” she crows triumphantly.

“I count at least six more, Zeryn,” Alistair calls.

One of the three Beaurain guards with them collapses at Zeryn’s side with an arrow through his throat. A lightning bolt flashes, narrowly missing one of the two remaining, as Alistair moves to crouch down by Zeryn’s side.

“They have a mage. Greeeat. Of course they do. Why not.” He groans, shifts his sword in his hand. Zeryn throws down her crossbow with a scowl.

“Fire and blight, fuck this,” she growls. “They should have brought more men if they wanted to take on the Broscas.”

“Zeryn,” Alistair grabs her wrist before she can stand. “Don’t.”

“We can’t do anything pinned down like this, Alistair, and you know it. Not our specialty. Let’s just charge the bastards and get it over with. Tell the men to cover us.”

There’s a panicky light in Alistair’s eyes, one she hasn’t seen in a long time. She plants Starfang in the ground in one quick motion, grabs his face in her gauntleted hand. “Stay with me, love. There’s just six of them. Just like old times, huh? We can do this.”

“Those ‘old times’ always included a healing mage and a useful rogue, not two inexperienced guardsmen,” he growls.

“Well, fuck ‘em,” she says. “We’re heroes of legend, darling. Back-up is just a bonus.” Alistair’s fingers loosen their hold just enough for Zeryn to slip free. She flicks down her helm and grabs her sword, twisting to rise and charge out from the cover of the cart before Alistair can stop her again.

There’s a muffled yell, some expletive from Alistair behind her, but she doesn’t hear it. Zeryn reaches deep inside to the hard core of rage ever-present inside her and her vision goes red at the edges, a war cry torn jagged from her throat. She’s a hurricane, a force of nature, the dwarf armored in the bones of the dragons she has slain with a battle-scarred Mabari at her side. She can see the bandits fall back when they recognize her, fear etched in every line of their faces. Only the mage holds her ground, staff aloft, and sends another lighting bolt flashing toward Zeryn. She deflects it with her shield and then she’s on top of the mage, Starfang’s pommel slamming into the other woman’s nose so that the mage reels backwards. Three quick blows with her shield follow and the mage is on the ground, staff dropped uselessly from limp fingertips, and Cailan has his fangs in her throat. Zeryn leaves him, whirls to face the rest. Three of the bandits have recovered themselves enough to circle her warily, and Alistair, meanwhile, has drawn off the other two a short distance away. For a moment nobody moves to strike.

“I know you know who I am,” Zeryn snarls. “I suggest you run away now while you’ve still got the chance, or I will bathe the ground with your blood, you fucking two-faced bastards.” That’s enough to enrage them into charging, as usual, and Zeryn would roll her eyes at the never-ceasing predictability of stupid people if she wasn’t still seeing red.

She dodges the rushed swing of a sword, which takes her just past the bandit attached to it, and slashes Starfang across his exposed hamstring from behind ( _and this is why you don’t wear armor that only covers your vital bits_ , she thinks). A second bandit’s sword whistles down towards her neck and Zeryn throws up her shield to block it as the first one collapses to his knees with a scream. But the second is good – it takes most of Zeryn’s concentration to block the flurry of strikes he throws at her with dagger and sword. She’s vaguely aware of Cailan finishing off the other behind her as she parries. Unable to get a blow in edgewise, she growls, finally plants her feet and explodes upwards with all her strength in a shield blow. It’s enough to knock the sword-and-dagger wielding bandit back a step. She follows through with Starfang and drives her blade into his throat with her other hand, plants her foot in his chest and yanks the blade out as he falls backwards to the ground, gurgling. The move leaves her exposed to the third and final man, who has circled around her while she was distracted and suddenly there’s a seering pain in her shoulder, a dagger slipped between the plates of her armor and sunk deep into her skin. She screams.

The knife twists cruelly and she swings out her shield arm wildly, hoping to catch the bandit with it. He dodges nimbly backwards and yanks the dagger out. Zeryn whirls to face him, Cailan at her side. There’s a pause, a faint gleam of teeth flashing in the sun as her opponent just waits, mocking her with a cocky grin. Then Zeryn shouts, rushes in leading with her shield. She can feel blood streaming down her arm under her armor, but she ignores it, drives the bandit backwards with a quick succession of strikes with her shield. He dodges them completely, hopping backwards with each step she takes towards him and then as she’s raising her weakened sword arm to swing Starfang, he steps in close, knocks her shield to the side with a well-placed swing from his sword. He drives the dagger, already dripping with her blood, into the chink between vambrace and couter, and the yell of pain that Zeryn lets out this time is hoarse.

There’s a bellow from across the field which Zeryn barely registers as Alistair shouting her name. She drives her knee upwards, catches the bandit’s arm before he can pull it back, and then slashes Starfang at his face while he’s distracted. The bandit falls back, snarls, and she presses forward, bleeding in earnest now. She clenches her fingers around Starfang’s hilt, wills herself not to drop it, and smashes the top of her shield into his chin. He reels, and Zeryn readies herself for another shield blow when suddenly Alistair’s sword is sprouting from the bandit’s back, and there’s bloodlust and rage in Alistair’s eyes as the bandit topples.

Zeryn lets out a shuddery breath and then Starfang drops from her numb fingers and she’s on her knees, nearly on her face, before Alistair catches her by the shoulders.

“Zeryn!” he shouts, ripping off his helm, and Zeryn hears him as if from a great distance, sees the sheer panic in his eyes. “Fucking void, stay with me, love,” he’s saying and Zeryn tries to reach up and touch his face and finds her sword arm won’t quite move.

“My shoulder,” she gasps, the red fading from her vision. As the rage goes, the pain triples. Alistair’s fingers slip between the pieces of her armor, undoing the ties and pulling off the pieces. When he gets her pauldron off and tossed aside, he gives a sharp intake of breath at the blood stained gambeson underneath.

“Merciful Andraste, Zeryn, what were you thinking?” He slides the garment off her shoulder and Zeryn gasps in pain. She’s shaking, from blood loss or shock, she’s not quite sure which. Alistair shouts at the guardsmen still huddling around the wagon to bring him something to use as a bandage, and then he’s brushing his hand over her face and murmuring soothingly in her ear. She manages to wriggle her other arm free of her shield and grab at him with it and she says, or thinks she says,

“Well it worked, didn’t it?”

Alistair laughs harshly, takes the cloth from the guard who offers it and starts tying off her shoulder with practiced hands.

“Yeah, it worked, you idiot woman. It worked.” It’s true – their attackers are all dead; one of the ones that Alistair was fighting is down with an arrow in his back from the Beaurain guardsmen, and the rest are dead as well, by Zeryn and Alistair’s hands. But Alistair’s fingers are trembling as he moves his hands down to bind the dagger wound on her arm. The guard offers her a flask of ale and Zeryn drinks greedily, willing the pain to abate. When she’s done, she moves her free hand up, rests it on the back of Alistair’s neck and squeezes her eyes shut.

Alistair’s fingers linger on her arm as he finishes with the last bandage and then he grabs her by the waist and crushes her to him, careful not to squeeze her arm. Zeryn buries her face in his neck.

“Fuck,” he says, voice shaking. “Don’t ever, _ever_ , do that to me again, my love. Ever.”

She gives a muffled sob, the fear suddenly hitting her like a brick to the gut, and suddenly she’s murmuring, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry” over and over again. He grabs her hair in his hand and kisses her roughly, open-mouthed, to shush her and then he just…doesn’t let her go. His lips brush hers more slowly, exploring her mouth as though he’s never done so before, and he doesn’t stop until Zeryn relaxes in his arms and stops trembling.

Finally he pulls back, touches her cheek gently, and she drops her forehead against his with a sigh. “And you said there wasn’t going to be any action,” she whispers and he snorts, lets out a soft chuckle.

“In retrospect, I _may_ have made a mistake there.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair takes a turn being the concerned parent-to-be.

Weeks later, on the road to Orzammar, Zeryn retches behind a bush a short distance from where they’ve made camp. She comes back to the fire, wiping her hand over her mouth and scowling. In a week or two, by her count, the morning sickness should stop, or at least that’s what she’s heard, but so far it shows little sign of abating. Alistair had wanted to wait until she felt better completely to make the journey, but Zeryn quickly got tired of waiting and insisted they head out anyways. In retrospect, that had probably been a mistake.

“I don’t suppose you want any of this,” Alistair says, lifting a ladleful of stew from the pot he has on the fire. His cooking skills have significantly improved in the years since the Blight, which is probably due to the fact that Zeryn has never been able to cook any better than he has.

“Maker, no,” Zeryn groans, lowering herself onto a large rock by the fire gingerly. She rubs at her stomach, where she is just starting to have a noticeable baby bump. “Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up again.”

He frowns at her, forehead creasing, and says, “Well, maybe in an hour or two, then. I’m concerned you’re not eating enough with it all coming right back out again, love. Can’t be good for you or our daughter.” He doles out a bowl for himself and comes to sit on the ground beside her.

“I’m all right, Alistair,” Zeryn repeats, for the fifteenth time that day. “It _will_ pass. Eventually.” She makes a face. At her side, her husband hmphs and digs a spoon into his stew. He mutters something she doesn’t quite catch, something involving the words ‘stubborn’ and ‘be the death of me’. Zeryn socks him on the arm, hard.

“Ow!” he complains loudly. A few feet away, Cailan barks and wiggles his hindquarters, eying the pair of them hopefully with the look he gets whenever she and Alistair start wrestling or teasing each other too much. ‘Play?!’ his look says. “Oi, you, don’t encourage her,” Alistair says, pointing his spoon accusingly at the dog. Zeryn slips off the rock and to the ground and holds out her hands to Cailan, who trots over and butts his head under her hands happily. She scratches his ears and down his neck and coos,

“Who’s a good war hound? Always on my side, aren’t you? Don’t listen to the big mean human, nooo.” Cailan flops over onto his back so she can rub his belly and wriggles happily.

“Oh, so _I’m_ the mean one now. Right. ‘Cause that makes total sense when you’re the one who hit _me_. Fine, fine, make me the villain.” Alistair lets out a long-suffering sigh and Zeryn turns to eye him over her shoulder, one brow arched.

“You know what I think he needs, boy?” She says to Cailan, who lifts his head, ears perking, and twists back onto his stomach. “A lick attack. You should just lick his face. Serve him right.” Cailan seems more than happy to oblige. He springs at Alistair, who manages to set the bowl of stew atop the rock just before he’s bowled over by the dog’s massive bulk and set upon with mabari tongue.

“Hey hey hey! That is absolutely unfair. Stop that!” Alistair pushes at Cailan’s muzzle feebly and the mabari wags his nonexistent tail like mad.

Zeryn laughs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Get him boy!”

Alistair sits up, managing to upset the dog slightly. “Oh no you don’t. You do not get to stay out of this one, love.” He reaches out to grab her and tugs her towards him. She ends up half-sprawled between dog and man with a squeak. Cailan turns his attention to licking _her_ face and neck and ears, and Alistair holds her in place with his big hands, grip strong enough so that she’d have to work to get away but not strong enough to be painful. She squirms.

“Nooo, stoop,” she giggles. Alistair lets go with one hand and tickles her side until she wheezes, “Alistaair…I can’t…breathe!” He stops.

“Oh no, look out, she might spew,” Alistair says to Cailan, who woofs and backs off half a pace to flop down on the ground. Zeryn slumps against Alistair’s chest and gasps for air, still laughing. He sweeps the tendrils of long red hair that have come free from her braid behind her ear and plants breathy kisses up the side of her neck.

Zeryn stays there in his arms even when she can breathe again, lapsing into a contented silence while Alistair toys with her hair. Above them, the stars sparkle brightly against the blue-black sky, and the breeze smells like mountains and pine.

“Zeryn?” Alistair asks, some time later.

“Hm?”

“Do you ever wonder if perhaps I might…I don’t know, make a mess of this whole thing?”

“What thing, love?” Zeryn tilts her head back so she can look him in the eye better and frowns.

“This…being a father business. Don’t you think, sometimes, that I might end up terrible at it? It’s not as though I had any role models. I never had a father.”

Zeryn sits up and Alistair props himself up on his elbows to search her face with an anxious expression. She smoothes her fingers over the crease between his brows and asks quietly, “Are you really worried about that?”

“I don’t know…yes. I suppose.” He looks down. “It’s just that…I never had a family. I never knew my mother and as far as everyone was concerned I might as well have never existed to Maric. There was Eamon, for a while, but he was far from a _father_. And then it was just the sisters at the Chantry. I just…I really don’t know _anything_ about being a father.”

“I might be the wrong person to ask. I never knew my father either,” Zeryn says. She chews on her lip. “But to answer your question…no, I’ve never once thought to wonder if you would make a good father, Alistair. There’s no doubt in my mind you’ll be great at it.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you. I know the kind of man you are. You’re kind, and you’re funny, and you guard what you love fiercely. I don’t claim to be any kind of expert; Maker knows my family has always been messed up too. But it seems to me that what you need to build a family – the only kind of family I’d ever want – is love. And the way you love, Alistair…” she sighs, puts a hand on his cheek. “It’s all-consuming. There is so much loyalty inside of you. How could I ever picture you except loving a child of ours completely and totally?”

Alistair blinks back tears and smiles sappily at her. “So, you’re not worried I might drop our daughter on her head or forget her in a wagon somewhere, or… something?”

Zeryn snorts. “Considering the last time I saw you drop your sword in battle was years ago, I think you can manage to hold onto a baby under any circumstances, love.”

Alistair chuckles. With a tug on her collar, he pulls her in and kisses her.

“I love you,” Zeryn murmurs. “There’s no one else I would ever want to have as the father to my children, and don’t you forget it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. His tone is cheeky, but his fingers are curled tightly around her coat’s lapels as he kisses her again.


End file.
